


looking for a little bit of hope these days

by nevershootamockingbird



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Friendship, Future Fic, Multi, Post-Canon, UnDeadwood, Western Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 01:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevershootamockingbird/pseuds/nevershootamockingbird
Summary: "S'alright," Clayton murmurs, drawl thick as molasses and words blurring with exhaustion, "You can sleep now. I'll anchor you."Matthew thinks it sounds rather like something else, but he's asleep before he can even try to respond in kind.





	looking for a little bit of hope these days

**Author's Note:**

> UnDeadwood sucked me in, and I'm not sure I ever want it to let me go. 
> 
> Jumped the gun a bit with this one, but these characters are so fascinating and wonderful, I couldn't help but try to write them. Here's a post-canon (maybe? since who knows what will happen in the next three episodes) fic for what could happen, if all their pasts allow them some peace. 
> 
> Reverend Mason finds his family, and holds them close, and doesn't let go. They're just as inclined to keep him.

The door creaks as it shuts, and Matthew stirs out of an uneasy slumber, stampedes and dark maws slipping away like ash as he comes to consciousness. He’s halfway to sitting, sheets slipping down around his waist, before his surroundings come back to him fully. 

A low chuckle fills the room, fond and easy, and Matthew drops back against the mattress with a sigh. 

“Easy, Father,” comes the soft drawl, words laced with amusement, and he makes a face as he peers over at the shape to his left. Slashes of moonlight through shuttered windows just allow him to see the edge of Clayton’s smile. 

“Enough of that,” he grumbles, accent thickened with sleep, and Clayton smiles wider but says nothing. Matthew watches as the gunman neatly disrobes, each item of clothing treated carefully as it’s removed. He notices no stains or scuffs, but with the darkness-- “Did everything go alright?”

“Went off without a hitch,” and finally he can relax, exhaling deeply as relief floods his body. A pistol is set down on the bedside table, and then a lithe body slips between the sheets with him. Matthew rolls onto his side, eyes falling shut as warm skin presses up along his back, a calloused hand smoothing over his side. “Temperature’s droppin’, bit of rain. Should be clear tomorrow, though.”

A sharp nose nudges at the back of his neck, followed by the brush of wind-chapped lips and soft scrape of his facial hair. The larger man smiles, murmuring quietly, “Nice weather for a funeral.”

“Indeed.” Clayton’s hand slides forward, until his arm drapes across his waist; the men settle together, and Matthew is nearly asleep when the man behind him asks, softly, “Did I wake you?”

“Mhmm. Mighty glad you did,” he admits, reaching down to settle his hand over the one on his stomach. Long fingers twine with his as another kiss is pressed to the back of his neck.

“S’alright,” Clayton murmurs, drawl thick as molasses and words blurring with sleep, “You can sleep now. I’ll anchor you.”

Matthew thinks it sounds rather like something else, but he’s asleep before he can even try to respond in kind. 

* * *

The bleak sky stretches endlessly the next day, not a cloud in sight, just weak sunlight and pale blue. Reverend Mason shuts his bible, finishing the sign of the cross over the open grave before pocketing the small book inside his vestments. 

Soil spills from the widow’s leather-clad hand, littering across the closed coffin lid. The reverend nods to the nearby gravediggers, and loose earth is slowly shoveled across the coffin. The soft thuds linger in the air as Matthew leads the funeral attendees away.

The cemetery is quiet, save for the gate creaking under the suddenly strong wind. Good funeral weather.

“My condolences again, child. May he find peace in God’s arms.” Arabella lifts her handkerchief as he speaks, as though to wipe away tears; he catches sight of the edge of a smile beneath lace, and carefully maintains his apologetic expression. 

His poker face still, as his friends so often remind him, leaves much to be desired. 

A moment more to compose herself, and then Arabella lifts her head to meet his gaze, eyes clear and face clean. “Thank you for the beautiful words, Reverend Mason. Mr. Whitlock would be comforted to know that such a fine, upstanding man of the cloth as yourself carried out the ceremony.”

The woman at her side coughs suddenly, and Matthew has to swallow his own laugh, smiling comfortingly before cutting his gaze away. His eyes meet sharp blue under the brim of a black hat, and he has to drop Clayton’s gaze just as suddenly, lest he lose his composure in the open cemetery where any bored or curious passerby may see. 

It wouldn’t do for the town’s only priest to laugh amongst the dead. 

“Reckon you could use a drink, ma’am,” Aloysius says with a sharp grin, tipping his head towards Arabella, and the handkerchief comes up to press once more against her mouth. He winks, carrying on, “Real hard time, losin’ your husband. Bet some whiskey’d do you real good right about now.”

“Well, I don’t know about that, but I can provide a quiet place if you need to take some time before returning to your, ah, empty house,” Matthew offers gently, and Arabella’s eyes dance even as she nods her head in agreement. Miriam takes her arm, murmuring gently and appearing all for the world as a comforting friend; it really is no wonder that he can never win a hand against her. 

He leads the others back down the hill as the grave continues to be filled, leaving the dead behind as they trek towards the church, moving past it to the small house just beyond it. Up the steps, across the porch, and he holds the door open for the others as one by one they enter in a familiar file. 

The door clicks as he locks it behind himself, and Arabella finally laughs, eyes bright as she hangs her hat on his coat rack. 

“Clayton, I could kiss you,” she announces with a grin, and the man winks as he hangs his hat next to hers, shucking his overcoat as she unbuttons hers. 

“Attractive as that would be,” Miriam interjects with a smile, hanging her jacket before brushing a wayward curl away from Arabella’s face, “I’d really rather you didn’t, dear.”

Arabella leans in and presses a smiling kiss against the other woman’s mouth, working to get her gloves off between them, and Matthew chuckles at the infectious joy permeating the room, making quick work of his vestments as he heads down the hall towards his room. 

“Damn shame ‘bout Mr. Whitlock!” He hears Aloysius call from the kitchen, accompanied by the sounds of cupboards shutting and glasses clinking; by the time he makes it back, it’s to find his friends have moved into the small sitting room, passing around tumblers of whiskey. Aly grins, raising his glass in toast as he sits in the solitary chair by the fireplace. “Was real sorry to hear what happened to him last night.”

“Well, you know this town,” Arabella says, raising her own drink before she acquiesces to the proprietary hand on her other arm, sitting next to Miriam on the loveseat. “Always some shootout or other going on. Pity a spare bullet found its way to our house this time.”

She turns enough to raise her glass towards Clayton, and the others follow suit, Matthew reaching down to take the last glass from his coffee table before turning his gaze to his-- his partner. 

The gunman looks a bit spooked at the attention, a bit proud all the same. He inclines his head at the words, lifting his drink before tossing the whiskey back, and Matthew takes a slow sip of his, content to savor the sharp flavor as he watches Clayton’s exposed throat work. 

He settles himself back onto the cushioned bench at the window as Aloysius draws Arabella into conversation, Miriam playing with her paramour’s hair and listening on in clear amusement. Clayton crosses the room, stopping to refill his glass and murmur a sly comment that has Aly and the ladies fairly roaring with laughter. He continues on towards Matthew, and the reverend hides his smile in his drink as he takes another sip. 

“Doin’ alright, Father?” Clayton asks, sinking down gracefully to sit next to him, a long line of heat pressed against his side. Matthew snorts, shaking his head and stealing a look down at the other man.

“I may still be a man of God, but I will kick your ass,” he says, but there’s no heat in the words, just gentle affection, the corners of his mouth ticking up. Clayton grins, switching his drink to his right hand and settling his left down against Matthew’s knee, squeezing gently. His bare palm burns through the wool of his trousers.

“No you won’t, Matt,” he replies, all quiet confidence, and the reverend hums acknowledgement, swallowing the rest of his whiskey and covering Clayton’s hand with his own, cracked knuckles scraping gently under his palm. 

“That’s fair. I’ll have Miriam do it instead.” Clayton laughs at his words, and Matthew ducks his head as the laughter overtakes him, too, leaning more solidly against the man at his side. 

It’s nice, not needing to hide himself.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Aly calls out, sprawled out in the chair and grinning over at them, “Y’all wanna come out tonight? I’m takin’ Annabelle for a night on the town.”

“You going anywhere actually fit for a reverend to be seen at?” He asks, equal parts amused and skeptical, and Aly laughs, shrugging loosely. 

“A reverend, no. But honey, I don't think people in this town are all that interested in lookin’ too closely at what any of us do these days,” Miriam says easily, words slipping from her mouth like facts, holding her drink loosely between her fingers. Arabella’s head is tipped back against her shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and Miriam presses a kiss to her hair before looking back over at Matthew. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

An uncomfortable tightness loosens suddenly behind his sternum, and he glances at Clayton, finds the other man already looking at him. His partner tilts his head back, eyes gentle and deferring to his comfort, and Matthew squeezes his hand once before turning back to their friends. “We’d be glad to join you.”

“That’s more like it!” Aloysius slaps his free hand against the arm of his chair, knocking the rest of his drink back before nodding at the women. “You two will be joinin’, won’t y'all?”

“Of course,” Arabella agrees with a smile, empty glass cradled between her hands in her lap, loose-limbed and relaxed in a way Matthew hasn’t seen in some weeks, not since-- well. Miriam hums agreement, smoothing her open palm across shiny red hair. “No one would begrudge a widow seeking a distraction from her lonely, empty house.”

“No, I dare say they will not.” Clayton grins and salutes her with his drink, thumb rubbing gentle circles against the outer hinge of Matthew’s knee, where it’s liable to get stiff during storms. There’s a glint in his eye as he takes a sip, and Matthew’s eyes follow his tongue as it darts out to collect errant drops from his lower lip. His mouth curls into a small, sharp grin as he says, “No one’s gonna begrudge you with the company you’ll have.”

Miriam laughs, head tipping back, and Aloysius joins in, grin splitting wide across his face. “Glad we got that settled. Goddamn, I love this town.”

By the grace of God, or something else, Matthew knows that he does, too. 

* * *

The dancehall is not exactly his area of comfort. 

No one looks twice as he enters, nor as he skirts the edges of the floor to find a table at the blessedly attached bar. Clayton, Miriam, and Arabella follow behind, Clayton with a grounding hand between his shoulder blades to propel him towards an empty table. He glances around as he sits, grinning as he spots Aly spinning Annabelle carefully on the dance floor, not letting his bad leg get in the way of a good time. 

The band is loud, the patrons rowdy, and Matthew settles back in his chair as Clayton brushes a hand along his shoulders before escorting Miriam over to the bar. Arabella sinks into the chair to his left, reaching up to adjust the pins in her hair before grinning over at him. “Alright there, Mason?”

“You know I am,” he counters, smiling as she nods and settles back into her seat, crossing her legs and folding her hands neatly in her lap. He studies her for a moment, the rich blue of her dress and the low cut of it, the relaxed posture, and he knows but he finds himself needing to ask, “And yourself, Arabella? You doing alright?”

The questions earn him another genuine smile, none of the stress of the last few weeks visible anywhere in her face, and Matthew lets out a quiet breath of relief. His friend leans in, reaching out to grasp one of his hands, small fingers curling over the side of his palm as she tells him, “I haven’t felt this alive in months. I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.”

“Good,” and he _ means _ it, curls his fingers around hers and squeezes gently to make sure she’ll understand. Arabella squeezes back, something grateful and soft around the tilt of her lips, and then her eyes flicker up past him, gaze going utterly besotted. Matthew would tease her, but, well.

Most of her nails are still sharp as ever, and he rather likes his hand without holes in it. 

Her hand withdraws from his as Miriam skirts around the table to sit next to her, fingers brushing and lingering as she passes off the glass of some strong-smelling liquor. The scrape of a chair to his right draws his attention, and then Clayton is sitting closer than is probably normal with the space at their table, his knee butting up against Matthew’s as he sets two ales down in front of himself. 

“One of those for me?” He asks, leaning his elbows against the table, and Clayton hums consideringly, tiltings his chin up a little. Matthew lets his eyes be drawn over to the slide of his hair, grown out long enough to tie back now, though he’s left it loose tonight. 

It’s a real fucking good look on him.

“What’ll you trade for it?” His partner finally asks, a knowing grin on his face and impish look in his eyes, and Matthew chuckles low, shaking his head. 

They both already know how this will go, even if he doesn’t know the answer just yet. 

“What do you want this time?” Matthew asks, aiming for exasperated and falling far closer to indulgent, but he doesn’t particularly mind being so well known, not by this man, not by these people. 

There’s a safety in numbers here, one he hasn’t felt in years. It’s nice.

Clayton holds up a finger, gaze heavy as he murmurs, “One dance, Reverend. Promise me one dance tonight, and this drink is all yours.”

Well.

Matthew blinks, feels heat crawling up the back of his neck as his jaw drops just a little, feeling as though he’s been tossed from a horse by just those simple words.The request is unexpected, but not entirely as unappealing as it might have been five years ago, a year ago, even six months ago. 

Clayton’s eyes are gentle, understanding; he’ll back down if Matthew denies him. It would be so easy, but. 

Other things are easy these days, too.

“You have yourself a deal, Mr. Sharpe,” he says, reaching out for one of the mugs, and Cayton’s smile is a slow, beautiful thing, like the sunrise across the mountains. 

There’s a lot, he’s found over the last several months, that he would do for that smile. 

It’s easy to chat and drink together, the four of them, occasionally joined by Aloysius and Annabelle in between dances, when one or the other is feeling a bit parched. It’s comfortable, comforting, to laugh and talk and not have to hold his tongue, not have to worry about what anyone else might be thinking of him. 

The occasional glance around the rooms assures him that no one is paying their little group any mind.

Miriam draws Arabella away from the table after an hour, leading her out on the dance floor and spinning her out with a laugh loud and distinctive enough that Matthew can pick it out over the next song that the band strikes up. They carve a space for themselves amongst the other dancers, right near Aly and Annabelle, and Matthew smiles as he watches them, fondness flooding his chest. 

He glances over to find his partner already looking back, and Matthew knows it isn't just that last shot of liquor warming his belly. 

“You ready to collect on that debt, Clayton?” He asks softly, watches the other man’s eyes light up as the words sink in.

“It would be a pleasure, Reverend.” He stands as he speaks, pulling his gloves off carefully and tucking them into a pocket before holding out a hand, palm up. 

Matthew takes it without a second thought. 

Clayton leads him through the tables and crowd, larger now than when they'd first arrived; his palm is dry and warm, fingers curled tightly around Matthew’s hand, and though there's a slight prickle of uncertainty at the base of his skull he does not bow to it, does not flinch away, stands tall and allows no room for shame in his heart. 

It's far too full for anything like that. 

They reach the edge of the revelry, and Clayton turns back to him, lips curled into a smirk, and Matthew has only a moment to brace himself before the other man asks slyly, “You do know how to dance, don’t you, Father?”

“One day, I pray God will do as I ask and just strike me down where I stand,” he replies mildly, face aflame, and Clayton laughs, eyes crinkling at the corner. 

“He won’t if He knows what’s good for Him.” He’s tugged out onto the dance floor, then, the hand holding his raising up to brace gently, Clayton’s other hand settling at his waist, drawing him in closer. Matthew swallows hard and nervously places his free hand on his partner’s shoulder, the silk of his vest smooth under his palm. Gentle blue eyes meet his gaze as he glances down, and Clayton murmurs into the space between them, “Don’t worry, Matt. I’ll take care of you.”

“You always do,” comes the automatic response, before he even knows he’s speaking, and the sharp inhale from his partner tells him that neither of them expected those words.

God help him if he doesn’t mean them with every damned bone in his body, though.

Silence stretches between them for one minute, then two; Matthew’s highly considering tucking tail and making a run for it when Clayton’s hands suddenly flex and tighten on him. There’s an unusual flush high on the gunman’s cheeks, a sight that Matthew delights in almost as much as the small, private smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. 

The silence between them remains as Clayton begins to gently lead him through a few steps, simple and in time with the music, but it’s a comfortable thing, all tension gone and bled away. The hand at his waist slides around to the small of his back, pressing him in closer as the tempo picks up, and Matthew laughs at his own clumsy attempts at keeping up.

With the right partner, he finds that dancing is not nearly so hard as feared.

Miriam cuts in as the band swings into the next song, and she leads him through something a little more complicated, laughing not unkindly as she deftly evades his heavy footfalls, spinning herself out before pressing back in. A little ways over he watches Clayton dipping Arabella shallowly, the two drawing some attention as their dance grows a little more ostentatious, a little more graceful as they match each other step for step.

“They do look beautiful, don’t they?” Miriam asks, following his gaze over, and Matthew hums low, eyes riveted to the pair. 

“Indeed,” he murmurs, and then his dance partner flashes a sly grin up his way before twisting to make him nearly trip over his own damn feet. His startled yelp bleeds into a laugh as Miriam steadies him, winking up as she continues to lead him through the next few steps.

“Aren’t you supposed to be givin’ me your full attention, Reverend?” She asks, eyes sparkling, and Matthew laughs again, shaking his head.

“My apologies. I promise, you certainly have it all now.” Miriam is as fun a dance partner as she is a conversationalist, he finds, quick and not afraid to push him where she wants him to be. Enjoyable as the dance is, he’s rather grateful when it winds down and Clayton appears at his elbow, Arabella grinning as she hangs off his arm. A sharp, familiar whistle draws their attention to the door before any words can be exchanged; Aloysius tosses them a lazy salute, Annabelle waving cheerfully from where she’s tucked under his arm, before the two disappear out into the night. 

“He told us to apologize, but Annabelle’s working a late shift tonight and he wanted to walk her back,” Arabella clarifies, still a little winded from her dance. 

“Speaking of late, we ought to get you back home, honey.” Miriam reaches out as she speaks, winding one of Arabella’s curls around her finger before tucking it back behind her ear. Her gaze flicks up between Clayton and Matthew, smile like a knife and words sweet as honey as she asks, “You two gentlemen mind escortin’ us back?”

“It’d be our genuine pleasure,” Clayton drawls, lips curling into a grin, and Arabella laughs, leaning into him a little more heavily. 

“Let's be on our way then, shall we?” She offers, and it's easy to make their way out of the crowd, settling the tab with the bartender and collecting their coats before spilling out into the cold night. 

The ladies walk just ahead of them, Miriam with an arm wrapped firmly around Arabella’s waist, their heads ducked in towards each other like the pair of mourning doves that have recently taken up roost in the church’s rafters. Soft laughter drifts back on the breeze, making Matthew’s lips twitch up in an automatic response. 

He admits that the smile might also have something to do with the gentle hand resting at the small of his back.

Miriam and Arabella leave them with a kiss on the cheek each and warm smiles, Arabella’s eyes filled with gratitude and happiness, Miriam's filled with satisfaction. They wait until the laughter is shut and locked safely behind the front door before heading on towards the church. 

“Stray bullet, huh,” he remarks idly, taking a step closer to his companion. Clayton smirks and hums agreement, hand settling once more at the small of Matthew’s back. He grins, cuts his eyes to the side as he says, “Funny how there's no bullet holes in the front of the house. Heard he died right there in front hall, didn't he?”

“Sure did,” Clayton agrees amiably, and Matthew laughs softly, glancing up at the stars above. They walk in silence for a few more moments before the smaller man speaks again, voice soft but steady, “Bled out real slow. Made sure the last thing he saw was his wife laughing down at him.” 

The image floods his brain, Clayton calmly sheathing his pistol as Arabella leans down, hair tumbling loose and free, laughing as the man below her gurgles and chokes, begging for a kindness he never deserved and will not receive. It fills him with a warm rush of comfort, and he reaches over to tuck two fingers into his partner’s belt to tug him that much closer. “Good.”

They walk the rest of the way home in comfortable silence, Clayton crowding up behind him as he unlocks the door, herding him in as soon as the thing is open. The quiet lingers as they lock and bolt the door, as they shuck coats and hat and gloves, as they make their way down the hall to their room, not bothering to light any lamps or candles as they go. 

“Neck’s looking a little bare there, Reverend,” Clayton drawls from across the room, vest undone and shirt half-unbuttoned. Matthew glances over from beneath his lashes, collar and shirt already carefully put away, working lazily at his belt buckle. 

His partner’s hooded gaze is all too easy to read, and he smiles slowly, tipping his head back to bare his throat. “You planning to do something about that, Clayton?”

A sharp exhale, and then Clayton is crossing the distance in a just a few long strides, pressing himself up along Matthew’s front and biting at his neck, blunt teeth applying just enough pressure to pull a soft groan from his throat. Matthew lifts one hand to cradle the base of his skull, holding him close, as though he needed more encouragement; with his other hand, he carefully undoes the rest of the buttons of his lover’s shirt, fingers sliding through coarse hair and tracing scarred skin as soon as it’s available. 

He sighs up at the ceiling and knows, deep in his bones, that he will never stop loving this man.

“That’s better,” Clayton murmurs as he releases the skin, tongue sliding out over the tender spot before he draws away, sliding his vest and shirt down his arms. Matthew turns to unbuckle his belt, hands lingering on the leather for a moment before he sets it away. 

Another night, perhaps.

He gets his trousers off and folded, but a gentle hand stops him before he can take off his shorts, and he looks over to see Clayton looking a little unsure, a little hopeful. His tongue slides out over his lower lip, then: “Can I ask for one more dance?”

“There’s no music,” is all he can think to say, and Clayton huffs a fond laugh, eyes crinkling as Matthew sighs at his own stupidity. The tension bleeds from his partner’s shoulders, though, and he takes a step closer, thumb tracing gently over Matthew’s wrist.

“Doesn’t matter.” He shrugs, leaning in enough to ghost his lips over the tender skin of his neck, right along the mark that Matthew knows in his gut will still be visible despite his collar. He sighs as the lips trace up, up, up, over tendons and stubble, to the base of the scar on his cheek.

“Yes,” and his answer is whispered into Clayton’s mouth, lips meeting and sliding together. A hand settles at the small of his back, drawing him in until their bodies are nearly pressed flush; Matthew finally breaks the kiss as Clayton takes his right hand, lifting it to press a soft kiss to his fingers.

“Just follow me, Matt.” He braces their hands out then, and Matthew sighs, softens, loops his arm around his partner’s shoulders and tilts his head down to press their foreheads together. 

“Always.” Clayton begins to sway them slowly, leading him through a few simple steps through the patch of moonlight on the floor, shutters wide open. It’s easy to stay in time with him, especially when the gunman begins to hum a low tune; his gaze is steady and even, and Matthew finds that he can’t look away. 

He never wants to look away. 

Minutes pass, maybe hours, and Clayton keeps dancing them around in a slow circle, humming all the while. His chest feels full, his throat tight, and eventually Matthew stops and shuts his eyes, leaning their foreheads together once more as he exhales shakily. Clayton says nothing, stilling with him and gently stroking his hand over his spine, lowering their clasped hands so he can hold them against his chest. 

Matthew doesn’t want to imagine a future where this softness no longer occurs. 

“I love you,” and it’s easy, it’s terrifying, like riding along the edge of a cavern and not knowing whether he’ll fall into the abyss or towards solid ground. Matthew swallows past the lump in his throat, blinks open damp eyes to see where his words will land. 

Clayton is smiling, a soft, fragile thing, and Matthew feels the abyss reaching out to meet him. 

“I love you,” he says again, stronger, tilting his head to press a kiss to a bristled cheek, and a wet laugh hitches out of his partner’s lungs. 

“I know.” The words are a choked whisper, so very breakable, and Matthew squeezes their clasped hands gently, kissing his cheek once more. Clayton sighs shakily, eyes fluttering before searching for his, vulnerable and honest and so fucking blue that Matthew wants to drown in them. “I’m always gonna be here to anchor you. As long as you’ll have me.”

“Forever, then,” and they seal it with a kiss, pressed so close that Matthew isn’t entirely sure where he ends and Clayton begins. Beneath their hands, Clayton’s heart beats steady and strong. 

It’s enough. It’s enough. It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it, I just loved writing this and I'm honestly really proud of it. I tried to get the characterization right, but it was a little tricky with only having a couple-hours worth of content.
> 
> Title is from "Those Nights" by Bastille, as I was listening to their album Doom Days pretty heavily during the first half of writing this and that line really stuck with me for these characters. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! You can find me over on [tumblr](https://nevershootamockingbird.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/daleytwin1) if you feel like yelling with me about these characters, this show, or, you know, anything else!


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